


two thousand light years from home

by scheherazade



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: Blame it on Jack Whitehall's stupid face, I Don't Even Know, M/M, WRITE ALL OF THE BACKGROUND PAIRINGS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not needing to do something has never stopped Jack from wanting to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two thousand light years from home

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to M & J. Inspired by some obsessive panel-show watching, and much influenced by [these](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1106258)[two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/46277) fics.

It would have been the subject of idle innuendo back when he was still an unknown. These days it can only be categorized as A Problem.

Jack knows he's lucky. Sometimes the only way to comprehend it is to stop thinking altogether, because his brain's just not built for that. Long story short, he knows that he doesn't exactly need to sleep his way into the industry, what given his dad and his looks.

But not needing to do something has never stopped Jack from wanting to.

There was a professor — well, if he's honest, there was a teacher, too, but he'd panicked at the last second. Which, in retrospect, was probably better. For both of them. But then there was Professor Green.

"If you're planning on using this as leverage," she'd said right off, "let me advise you otherwise."

His very intelligent response: "What?"

"Half the freshers make up stories about me every year." She was matter-of-fact, edging toward amused. "Like crying wolf. No one will believe you."

"I wasn't," Jack protested. A pause. "Just to clarify. What you said, that's because of the stories and not because it's me, right?"

"Could be both." Her hands slid under the lapels of his blazer, tugged him right up to the desk edge where she was perched. He put his hand down on a stack of papers. Her thighs were warm against his hips, her lips right against his ear. "If you want to get yourself into trouble, it won't be over me."

Maybe she'd said it to throw him off, to turn him on; maybe it meant nothing. Except he keeps doing it. Not always with her, but always with people in positions of advantage over him. Advantage _for_ him.

His inaugural appearance on _8 Out of 10 Cats_ ends with Jimmy Carr looking pleasantly disheveled and scribbling a phone number on the back of an envelope.

"Only fair that everyone get what they want."

Jack is torn between, _Already got what I want,_ and, _Your subject-verb agreement needs work._ He ends up saying nothing. Takes the envelope, adds Sean Lock to his contacts. Jimmy still looks like a cat who hit the motherload of cream, and Jack decides he's never doing this again.

At least, not doing him.

The first time he meets David Mitchell, Jack observes a few things: 1) Mitchell is basically as awkward as he seems, 2) he plays up the posh factor for TV, and 3) the rumors might be true. But there are always rumors. It doesn't give Jack a reason so much as an excuse.

This one's a longer dance than most. Well, usually all it takes is a head-tilt and touch on the inside of someone's arm. People fall for him like rain over London. But David's more of an umbrella type. It makes Jack curious.

He tackles this one from oblique angles, all charged undertones and waiting games — a small touch here, a blatant innuendo there, jokes and irony and shared memories of Oxford — 'til one day David gives him a clumsy sort of come-on, and Jack takes it as his cue.

Rules were always suggestions, anyway, and walls are just there to be scaled.

He's sort of idly wondered if David is actually a virgin the way some of the others tell it. Jack has his doubts. David is definitely wary, more anxiety than anticipation with only a dressing room door between them and discovery. Jack kisses him and likes the way David sort of just _yields_ — willing, not wilting.

"Wait," says David when Jack makes to slide off the sofa and onto his knees. "Wait. I don't."

"Condom's in my pocket," Jack supplies.

David's hand slides into said pocket and retrieves it. He nudges Jack back against the armrest. Jack lifts his hips to help with the removal of his jeans. He hadn't exactly planned on getting fucked tonight, but he's not averse to it either.

Then David rips open the condom and rolls it onto Jack and—oh. _Oh._

"You all right?" David asks at Jack's slightly dumbfounded look.

Jack swallows, because David's lips are already bitten red and yeah. "Yeah," he says. "You?"

David smiles, cheeky. "That's for you to judge." It's the last thing he says for a while.

And yeah, okay. David definitely isn't unpracticed, whatever he is. Jack wonders if the rumors about Webb are true.

The next time he goes on _Would I Lie to You?_ , David smiles at him and everything's polite. Jack feels something like accomplishment, because this — this is his. David asks what he's doing after, and Jack doesn't give a straight answer. But he considers it. He keeps considering it right up until Lee Mack corners him by the water cooler,

"It's true, you know. He doesn't like people touching him."

_Personal experience?_ Jack almost retorts. Some deeply-ingrained desire to continue living keeps his tongue in check. "It was just a joke," he says.

"Yeah?" Lee tilts his head, all northern vowels and casual threat.

Jack backs away slightly. "I wouldn't. You know. Considering." He glances at the wedding band on Lee's finger.

Lee catches him looking and snorts, but there's something deflated behind the bravado. "Yeah," he says. "Considering."

Jack avoids David after that. Whatever's going on there, he wishes them the best of luck but hell if he's getting caught in the middle of that crossfire.

Some bullets you dodge, others are never fired. Jack can't decide if he loves or dreads _A League of Their Own_. On the one hand, Freddie and James and the banter are great. On the other hand, Jack feels he's liable to get himself killed doing one of the challenges someday.

Also, Jamie Redknapp is a knob. But damn if he isn't the most gorgeous one Jack's laid eyes on in a long, long time.

Jamie smiles at Jack's flirting and says nothing to the secondary line of meaning in all their conversations. It's not that he doesn't notice, because Jack's pretty sure satellites in space have picked up his signals by now. Hell, even _Flintoff_ has noticed.

And then one day Jamie knocks on his dressing room door. "Hey."

Jack runs his hand through his hair, flashes his brightest grin. "Hey. Something you want?"

Jamie closes the door after himself. Jack glances at the clock. Ten minutes before taping resumes. It's not ideal, but—

"So. I like you," Jamie begins, "and I know it's just how you are, but in case you're expecting some sort of pay off, I'm gonna tell you now it's not gonna happen. No hard feelings, all right?"

There's a pause.

"Well," Jack says, "certainly no _hard_ feelings, in that case."

He gets a smile for his trouble, and nothing else.

"What was that about?" Freddie asks later. "Never seen Redknapp so serious as when he walked out your dressing room."

"Just showed him the league table, is all," Jack says flippantly.

Freddie snorts. They both know it's a lie, but he doesn't push. It's one more thing to love about him.

Anyway, Redknapp is an anomaly. And that's the problem. Because everyone's started noticing him, paying him attention, and attention is all the excuse Jack needs.

He wonders if it should bother him that it's almost always men these days. He figures it's something to do with the dearth of funny women. That's hardly his fault, is it? Fish in the sea and all that. Gemma doesn't care, and he knows he's got loads of female fans. The internet is a beautiful thing.

"Did you know we're a thing?" Freddie asks once. "A bromance?"

They're due back on set in five, and most of Jack's attention is taken up by his lunch. It takes a minute for Freddie's words to process. He frowns around a mouthful of food.

"A wha'?"

Freddie hands him a napkin. "Apparently people on the internet like the idea of us together. As in. You know."

"What, like. Naked?" Jack stuffs the rest of his sandwich into his mouth.

"Yeah."

" _F'ewouff'ee?_ "

"Seriously."

Jack chews until his jaws hurt. His head hurts, too, come to think of it. Because why did it never occur to him until now? He's snogged Jason Manford, for god's sake. Flintoff should have been blindingly obvious.

"You didn't know?" Freddie asks.

Something about the way he says it makes Jack want to reply, _Did you want me to?_ But James Corden chooses that exact moment to stick his head in and overhear the last part of the conversation.

"Didn't know what?"

"None of your business," Jack says, same moment as Fred goes, "Nothing."

"Is it about the thing?" James sounds too gleeful for Jack's comfort. "Did you finally figure it out?"

"Seriously, why do you care?"

"Oh, come on. It's _brilliant_."

"It's my life!" Jack snaps. "Why does anyone care if I'm shagging Freddie? It's not like I'm going to die if I go without for a couple weeks and—"

The wide-eyed look on James' face makes him stop. Freddie clears his throat.

"And you," Jack deducts slowly, "meant something else, didn't you."

James starts laughing.

"He meant Redknapp," Freddie supplies helpfully. "About the thing with the eggs?"

"Because you're the one who put them in his car." Jack drops his head in his hands. "Damn."

James just laughs and laughs, and walks off laughing some more.

Jack wants to laugh it off, too, except now that the idea's in his head, he's going to need something more than laughter as an excuse. Especially when the world is determined to turn this joke into a living hell.

"Speaking of odd friendships, Freddie and Jack have what you might call a 'bromance'," James announces one day, and Jack nearly thunks his head against the table. The audience whoops and whistles. "Yes, tonight, we're going to do a celebrity edition of Mr. & Mr.!"

Jack puts on his sauciest grin and avoids making eye-contact with anyone but the camera. Freddie's got his usual smile on, that small upturn of his mouth. But he's looking at Jack as if for a cue, and Jack has no such thing to give him.

James asks question after question about Freddie, and Jack writes the most outrageous answers he can think of, partly for comedic effect but mostly to spite Corden and the producers.

Because of course he knows that Freddie likes a kebab before practice. That he's not fastidious about clothes. That he smells of sun and Old Spice.

It's not like Jack _wants_ to know or anything. He just notices. Maybe that's the problem.

He seems to be collecting a lot of problems, lately.

But there's one that isn't Jack's fault at all. It starts with a throwaway line, at some awards thing, about Jon Richardson's chronic singleness. It ends with Russell Howard dressing him down outside the men's room, and not in the fun way.

"You know some of us actually worked through our twenties to get here?" is the main theme, from which derive many variations. "Not everyone has the bloody time of day to go chasing after skirts."

All of which somehow results in Jimmy cornering him before _8 Out of 10 Cats_ the following week with,

" _Please_ tell me you didn't shag Richardson."

Jack gapes at him for a solid five seconds because seriously, what? " _What?_ " he repeats out loud, for good measure.

"It's the third rail of the comedy circuit, Jack. Even you should know that."

Jack splutters. "I didn't sleep with anyone! Why does everyone think I'm like the whore of Babylon — who, by the way, I'm sure was a _perfectly_ nice girl—"

"Everyone's talking about your bust-up with Russell Howard," Jimmy says, as if that's supposed to mean something.

"He was pissed," Jack says. "And so what?"

Jimmy's giving him an _oh, sweetheart_ kind of look. "They had a thing."

"A thing?"

"Yes."

Jack waits for him to elaborate. Jimmy doesn't. Jack looks heavenward, but can't decide if he's praying for patience or a bolt of lightning.

"Right," he says. "Well. I did not sleep with him. With either of them. Russell Howard thinks I'm an uppity little shit, which is rich, considering. But whatever this is, it is not my fault. All right?"

He stalks off before Jimmy can continue with his elliptical patronizing.

The whole thing might have been enough to deter a better man, but that better man is not Jack. Sometimes he thinks maybe he should get help. Not a psychologist, exactly. Maybe a life coach. Or a good influence.

Jonathan Ross is neither. He'd once said Jonathan was like a father figure to him. And maybe there's something to the whole Oedipal complex theory after all, because the minute Jonathan touches him during taping for _Big Fat Quiz of the Year_ , Jack can tell.

By the time Jonathan pulls out the champagne, Jack is already sifting through pick-up lines and possible scenarios.

They share a cigarette after the show, and Jonathan offers to drive him home. Talking with Jonathan Ross is like breathing helium. The jokes are easy, and so is Jack.

They're both laughing by the time they reach his place. There's something more than fond in Jonathan's voice when he says,

"That mouth on you."

Jack licks his lips. "Rather have it on you."

The garage is dark, and the car windows are tinted. Jack bumps his head against the steering wheel a couple times before he gets the angle right. He likes it when Jonathan tugs on his hair. Likes the taste of him in his mouth.

"Come in for a nightcap?" he asks, after.

Jonathan straightens his collar for him. "Don't think I could."

"Getting old?" Jack teases. "I'll give you a couple hours."

Jonathan laughs. "I _am_ old," he says. "And you, you're looking for someone else."

It shouldn't bother him, probably. Jack likes to think that it doesn't. That it's not the reason he follows John Bishop around at the next awards do, plying him with drinks and imbibing enough himself to make Freddie proud.

Jimmy catches the two of them leaving together and pulls Jack aside.

"Is everything all right?"

"Thing's great," Jack says automatically. "Very great."

"Look, I'm not sure what's going on with you but if you need to talk—"

Jack shakes his head. "No. Whatever's it, it's not my fault."

"I'm not saying it is."

"Because it's not." He brushes Jimmy's hand away. "I'm going now."

John hails a taxi and Jack slumps against him all the way home. He doesn't remember much after that, but he wakes up to John watching him. The morning's bright behind paisley curtains. There are picture frames on the nightstand, two dressing gowns hung by the door.

Jack can't tell if he feels sick or hungover.

"I better go."

"Yeah," John agrees quietly, and calls him a cab.

Jack has never been one for consequences, considering. It's just habit by now. Maybe Jonathan's right. Maybe he is looking for someone — something — else.

His afternoon's blocked off for some field trip with _A League of Their Own_. Something with skiing, which is about the last thing Jack wants to do today. Especially as Jamie is having one of his more self-absorbed moments. And James is too busy trying to chat up their lady guest, whose name Jack has already forgotten.

Freddie stumps through the snow to stand beside him. "All right?"

"No."

The wind swirls puffs of white around their ankles.

"Right," Freddie says after a long silence. He leaves. Jack watches him go up to the line producer. Maybe Freddie's going to ask to be put on a team with somebody else for a change. Though it looks like a pretty long and involved discussion, for something so trivial.

Then Jamie wanders over and pokes his nose in. Freddie is still talking, and the producer's looking increasingly agitated. The interns are hovering nearby like satellites.

After a couple minutes, James gets called over as well, and okay, Jack is officially being left out of the loop. He wades over and wedges himself in beside Jamie.

"Everything all right?"

James shakes his head. "Fred's knee's acting up again. I knew we should've gone with my tennis idea."

"We could shift this to Sunday," one of the interns is saying. "That would give Mr. Flintoff time to get it checked out?"

Jack stares at Freddie, whose expression gives nothing away.

Twenty minutes and four frantic phone calls later, they're packing up. Jack checks his watch. Half past one. An hour ago, he thought he'd be lucky to get home by six.

"Come on then," Freddie says, suddenly appearing at his side.

Jack blinks. "Sorry?"

"You're to drive me home. I'm not allowed near a vehicle."

"Because of the rally racing thing?"

"Because of my knee."

Jack stares up at him. Freddie shrugs.

They're halfway back to London before Jack thinks to ask, "Do you need the hospital?"

Freddie snorts. "My knee's fine."

"What? But—"

"You didn't want to be there, and Redknapp's been pissy since Christmas." Freddie stretches his long limbs as far as they'll go in Jack's tiny car. "Not my idea of a good afternoon."

"You faked an injury to get out of contractual obligations?"

"You want to tell me why I had to?"

Jack opens his mouth and realizes the answer is, _I don't know._ Instead he says, "Have you had lunch?"

They stop for chips and sit in the car with the engine running for heat.

"Do you think I'm any good?" Jack asks.

Freddie crumples the greasy chip paper into a ball. "What'd you mean?"

"Like when I'm on the show." Jack hands the rest of his food to Freddie. No point letting it go cold. "Do you ever laugh at my jokes?"

"Don't know," Freddie says. "Have you ever told any?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"You think I'm not funny."

"No, I said you don't tell jokes. You observe things." Freddie finishes off the chips. "Doesn't mean it's not funny."

"Anyone can do that," Jack says, feeling pleasantly sorry for himself. "Only difference is I'm on TV."

"Yeah. And?"

"I didn't earn it, did I?"

There's a pause.

The crunching sound is all the warning he gets before Freddie chucks the crumpled-up wrapper at his head. It would be funny if Freddie weren't a cricketer. Jack ducks just in time.

"Jesus!"

"So you're lucky," Freddie says. "So people've handed you things. What you do once you're in the game, that's still on you."

Jack stares at him. "What if I don't know what I'm doing."

"You do what you want to do. What else is there?"

He says it like it's fact. Maybe it is. Jack remembers, suddenly, that Freddie's family have roads named after them.

"I slept with a married man," Jack hears himself say.

Freddie gives him that faint smile, barely more than a twitch of his mouth. "I once stole a pedalo."

Jack snorts. "And fell off it."

"Nearly drowned."

"Yeah, well. Glad you didn't."

"Me, too."

The engine hums. It's gotten warm enough that Jack takes off his knit hat. His hair sticks up at odd angles.

"So."

"Got ourselves an afternoon free."

"Yeah." Jack taps his fingers on the steering wheel. "Want to find a pedalo?"

That gets him a laugh. "Piss off."

Jack grins. "How about my place, then?" He puts the car in reverse, pauses a moment for confirmation.

Freddie's smile is lazy and warm. "Sounds good."

 

* * *

 

**Coda:**

"Freddie."

"Jack."

" _Freddie_. I just—oh my god."

"Something wrong?"

"Is this all you wanted?"

"Mmm."

"A wristy?"

"...a what?"

"A wristy."

"That what they're doing to criminals in South Africa? Arristin' them?"

"No, you tit. It's what they call a hand-job. In Australia."

"You shagged an Aussie?"

"Like you haven't."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"..."

"..."

"It was Brett Lee, wasn't it."

"Let's just call it 1-1 and leave it at that."


End file.
